


With Intent

by Suzie_Shooter



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Overhearing Sex, Sharing a Bed, wank fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3900742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Merry Month of Masturbation, on a prompt of awkward bed-sharing/exhibitionist neighbours. Athos finds that d'Artagnan's tent is entirely too close for comfort - although Porthos doesn't seem to mind at all...</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Intent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evilmaniclaugh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/gifts).



Athos had, he was fairly sure, suggested that it was a cruel and unusual punishment to make d'Artagnan accompany the first detachment of Musketeers to the front, tearing him away from his marriage bed before he'd even started his honeymoon.

Now, having suffered three nights of sleeping in an adjacent tent, Athos decided he'd been right, except insofar as the cruel and unusual punishment had turned out to be for him.

Things were bad enough as it was. It was freezing cold, the ground beneath his blanket seemed to be all rocks, and if he sat up the rain immediately soaked through the slope of the tent and made it stick to his face. 

All of which would have been bearable, if he hadn't also had to endure the _noises_.

After the first night, Athos had tried dropping subtle hints about how sound carried, and how easy it was to accidentally overhear things. D'Artagnan had just smiled at him breezily and told him not to worry, they were several miles from the Spanish encampment, and he was unlikely to spill any military secrets. Athos had winced at the mental image, and made a tactical retreat. 

After the second sleepless night, considerably shorter of temper and less inclined towards tact, Athos had taken d’Artagnan aside and ordered him to be more discreet about his nocturnal activities. D'Artagnan, baffled, had asked if this was about him tripping over the guy rope to Athos' tent on his way to the latrines, and apologised. Athos had given up again in frustrated disgust.

After the third disturbed night, Athos unceremoniously pinned d’Artagnan up against a tree and told him if he heard him wanking one more time he was going to set fire to his tent.

Redfaced and finally realising what Athos had been getting at, d'Artagnan had apologised profusely, awkwardly but earnestly explaining how much he was missing Constance until Athos had backed off with his hands over his ears.

Athos had hoped that would be an end of it, and despite the physical discomforts had laid down that night in hope of a decent sleep. Porthos was a solid warmth at his back keeping off the worst of the chill - they'd found over several previous campaigns that the benefits of bunking down together outweighed the cramped problems of sharing a tent. Porthos certainly hadn't seemed bothered by d'Artagnan's less than discreet activities, generally falling asleep within minutes of getting his head down and snoring like a hibernating bear.

Athos was just drifting off to sleep when he heard the first moan. He froze, willing it not to be what he suspected it was. When it was followed by a second moan, louder than the first, he cursed the fact that in three nights he'd apparently become so attuned to d'Artagnan's sex noises that he could recognise them straight away and at a distance.

"I'll kill him." He stared up into the blackness of the tent.

"Kill who?" Porthos mumbled beside him.

"D'Artagnan."

"What's he done now?"

"More what he's _doing_ now," Athos hissed. There was a rustle of bedding as Porthos rolled over, and then a chuckle as Porthos caught the latest moan from next door.

"He misses Constance. Leave the poor kid alone." 

"If he doesn't shut up I'll cut his knob off and post it back to her."

Porthos snorted. "He's young. Full of - "

"I don't want to know, thank you."

"I was going to say energy."

Athos sighed. "This is the fourth night in a row. No one should have that much energy. It should be illegal."

"Been listening in have you?" Porthos grinned.

"No!" Athos spluttered. "I can't convince him to shut up. Look, alright, if you won't let me kill him can't you knock me out or something? I can't go through another night of this."

"He's not doing any harm," Porthos protested sleepily. 

"He'll get wanker's wrist," said Athos darkly. "I need his sword arm unfatigued, thank you very much."

Porthos muffled a laugh in his blanket. "You're a bitter old fuck, you know that?"

Athos sighed. "Am I?"

"Yep." Porthos wriggled closer and draped an arm over him. "Go to sleep."

"I'm telling you, I can't. Not while d'Artagnan's over there entertaining Madame Palm and her five lovely daughters."

Porthos grunted but didn't bother forming a reply, and for a while they lay quietly. D'Artagnan, apparently conscious of Athos' outraged tirade that morning was clearly trying to keep things muffled, but that only had the unfortunate effect of making everything sound twice as filthy.

After a while, Athos became conscious that Porthos was fidgeting a lot beside him, and a nasty suspicion began to dawn in his mind.

"Don't you fucking start," he hissed.

Porthos cleared his throat. "Sorry. Can't help it. All that gasping and moaning, it's making me hard as fuck. Have you seriously been listening to it for four nights? Are you dead from the waist down or something?"

"Maybe I'm just not overly turned on by great hairy soldiers," Athos retorted, although that wasn't entirely true, and Porthos knew it. There was more than one advantage to sharing a tent, and more than one night during a campaign they'd brought each other off, whether as a means of comfort or just letting off steam. Neither of them had ever really given it a second thought, but Athos felt getting off to someone _else_ was hardly acceptable behaviour.

"Should have sent all of you to the damn monastery," he muttered, trying to ignore the tiny wet noises Porthos' hand was now making on his cock. 

"How long do you reckon Aramis managed to go without a wank?" Porthos mused, hand moving vigorously under the blanket and abandoning discretion now that Athos knew what he was doing.

"Be amazed if he made it past Compline," Athos murmured and Porthos cackled, trying to stifle his laughter with his free hand.

A few feet away d'Artagnan had clearly achieved orgasm, giving a low drawn out moan that made Porthos bite his knuckles and redouble his own efforts. 

Athos turned his back pointedly, settling back down to sleep, but with Porthos huffing and panting next to him it was only ever going to be a show of protest. 

Eventually Porthos came with a grunt of satisfaction, sagging back into his blankets with a sigh. He groped around for something to clean up with, then wriggled up against Athos' back.

"Are you quite finished?" Athos muttered.

"Yes thank you," said Porthos meekly, grinning in the dark and sliding an arm back round Athos' waist.

"Don't you touch me with your sticky fingers," Athos grumbled. "Or your sticky anything else for that matter."

He felt the warm huff of Porthos' laughter against his neck, and despite his words relaxed back against him. After his exertions Porthos was radiating warmth, and Athos had to admit it was pleasant given the coldness of the night.

"Night Athos," Porthos whispered. "If you want, I'll move the tent tomorrow. Further away."

Athos half smiled, touched despite himself. "To where we can't hear him?" 

"Yeah." Porthos moved his hand further down and smirked to discover that Athos was just as hard as he'd suspected. "Or to where he can't hear us."

\--


End file.
